The Tears of Things

The New Mango Revolution Needs A Few Good People

by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King

Obviously, we want to make money from our novel-in-progress about Cuba. We're currently compiling a list of possible agents; any interested literary agent reading this is invited to email us.

Two points:

1. Other recent and upcoming books and movies about Cuba focus on either the past in Cuba or the present somewhere else, usually Miami. Our novel is about Cubans in Cuba today.

2. The form of the story --using surveillance technology and epistolary passages-- lends itself readily to four realizations or adaptations:

1. A radio play
2. A multi-media stage play
3. A screenplay for a film
4. The novel itself

If you're interested in beaming a Cuban Spanish version of La Pionera And The New Mango into Cuba, please email us.

La Pionera And The New Mango, Part Two, Section 10: Jikary Nacional and the Jaba Vinyl of Miracles

by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King

[Part Two, Section 9 is just below. The earlier parts of this novel in progress are on the sidebar.]

[Mantis here --or, rather: This is Jeronimo D'Anconia Reyes speaking. When it all settles out, The New Mango Revolution will offer millions of stories --eleven million plus. I have heard only a fraction of them, streaming through earphones, edited by my cadres, witnessed by myself, but I have heard them. And I will tell my own story through theirs, at times. History and my fellow Cubans, telling their own histories, will judge me harshly, as they should --who knows? I may not even live to tell the end of this story --my witness to this incredible event in history-- but I'm used to it: my fate, as through my whole life, is in the hands of others. But these excerpts are what I have chosen to share from the intricate overlapping reverberant concourse of conversations interwoven throughout Cuba during the New Mango Revolution. I chose them because they seemed particularly emblematic and strong.

[Monday, mid-afternoon, May 30,2005. MININT/CubaCell intercept of a cell-phone call between ISA senior and student artist Ramona Herrera and her cousin, ISA sophomore Ana del Mar. Ana is in the dorm room she shares with her novio Jikary Nacional at ISA. Directly across the hall lives their good friend Nelson Prieto. MININT has a hidden camera in the hallway, mainly to monitor drug transactions and "overcrowded" meetings. And every dorm room has a listening device. While Ana is talking, for example, across the hall Nelson is remote-zapping an American movie --Wall Street-- from his collection on his prized TV/VCR unit, muttering movie dialogue under his breath, probably dancing in place, mugging at the screeen, and making notes for an upcoming performance art project, Denominations. (Oh: for off-Islanders, ISA has its own generators --Guillermo patiently wore down the bureaucrats for five years to obtain them-- so blackouts and power failures are rare. Most sentences in quotes below are in English, and are American movie quotes or paraphrases. And "cola duty" means standing in line after line after line . . .)]

Ramona: How you feeling, cousin?
Ana: A little weak. Jikary had cola duty today, and he's been gone a long time; most of the day. He was supposed to go to the farmacia first, to get some insulin, but you know how these things go . . . Maybe they didn't even have any, and he had to go to the one across town . . .
Ramona: Hey, really, cousin, are you okay?
Ana: Like I said, a little weak. Just checked and my level is over 200. Listen, what's up? I can't talk too long on this thing; too expensive, and the batteries are about as low as mine.
Ramona: Oh! Damn, cousin, I forgot. I wish I could --never mind. Okay, listen: Abel and Yoan have struck again. This time--
Ana: Getting interns to do their work for them?
Ramona: Exactly. This time they've got three of them on a rush project --a CD cover.
Ana: Three of them?
Ramona: Well, they have to come up with an idea, don't they?
(laughter)
Ana: Good one. Yeah, and between the five of them--
Ramona: Right. And they all get their credits on the sleeve. Kind of crowded.
Ana: What's the CD?
Ramona: It's a single, or maybe EP, by Distinto. It's called "The New Mango," and that's--
Ana: What? Did you say The New Mango? Do you know about--?
Ramona: That's what I was going to say: all this buzz the last few days, with those little white cards--
Ana: Did you get one?
Ramona: No, but I've seen one.
Ana: Me, too. But what were you going to say?
Ramona: That it's weird. Everybody's bouncing off The New Mango, but nobody knows what it is.
Ana: Yeah, that's it exactly. So Distinto--?
Ramona: He got a card, too, and came up with the song idea.
Ana: Dio, this is weird. It's like a virus or something.

[As the two continue to speculate, Jikary Nacional appears on the hallway camera, at the end of the hall. The stairway door closes behind him. He leans against the wall. He carries in both hands a heavy-laden opaque white jaba vinyl. He rests his head against the wall for a moment, then pushes off, shuffling slowly down the hallway closer to the camera. He stops, swaying, outside Nelson Prieto's dorm room door, then knocks softly. A few seconds later, the door opens, and Jikary falls into the room. Switch to MININT microphone record:]

Nelson (sound of door closing): Jikary! What happened? . . . Here, sit down.
Jikary (in English, bad Austrian accent): "I need your cloze, your boods, and your moderzygle."
Nelson (automatically): "You forgot to say please." Jikary, stop messing around. What happened?
Jikary: I got everything, my man. I got what Ana needs, and more; oh man, what a blessed day, thank you Jesus, thank you Lord . . . My father came through like an angel, and after that there was the miracle of the disappearing line . . .(trails off)
Nelson: You saw your father? Hello? Jikary, did you eat? You were supposed to eat first.
Jikary: Ummm . . .
Nelson: Mierda, I thought so. Come on. Straighten up. We don't want Ana to see you this way.
Jikary: . . . That's why I came here first, hermano. To catch my breath. Help me up . . . I've got everything she needs. Let's go.

[They cross the hall and knock. Ana has already hung up from her conversation, and is lying in bed shivering, so obviously that the microphones pick it up.]

Ana: W-Who is it?
Nelson: Jikary and Nelson.
Ana (after a few moments, sound of door opening): Jikary! What happened?
Jikary (weakly) . . . lots of good things . . .
Nelson: He forgot to eat.
Jikary: I had a banana . . . but that was early . . .
Ana: You need to lie down. Let me take that.
Jikary: No! (sound of plastic rustling) Just let me sit down for a second. This day . . . (deep breath, more rustling) First things first. Here, Ana dear: go take care of yourself.
Ana (after more plastic rustling): Jikary! No! But this is impossible! Strips, insulin, two dozen syringes . . . This is . . . What did you have to . . .?
Nelson: In other words, who did you kill?
Jikary: My father helped me out. I'll tell you. But first, please go do what you need to do, okay, Ana?
Nelson: Go on, Ana. I'll feed this fool.
Ana: Good idea. But don't start the story without me.
(Sounds of footsteps as Ana goes over to their small shared refrigerator, puts some of her prizes away, and then steps into the bathroom)
Jikary: You have food?
Nelson: I have food. I know you, man. I'm surprised you didn't give the banana to somebody. The stuff's in the fridge, I'll zap it--
Jikary: Wait. (Rustle of plastic) Take these with you. Hide them in the back. I want to surprise Ana--
Nelson: Dio!
Jikary: Shhh . . .
Nelson (whispering): Two Dos Equis and a Diet Coke? Really, man, who did you kill?
(Sound of refrigerator opening and closing, shuffling sounds, then the clunky old microwave rattling and humming)
Jikary: No, it was nothing ugly. It was all good. My dad landed a fat-wallet American Benjamin who wanted to ride around all over the damned north shore, practically, all night long. Looking at the moon. That smells good. Taking pictures of the moon. "Straaaange dude" --had a cowboy name: Wade Snow --right out of Tombstone, huh?-- stopping on beaches, his head bobbing up and down, watching the moon in the sky, on the water, in the sky, on the water; lunaticus Americanus my dad called him, but a generous soul, too --that smells really good-- this dude Snow had a big old-fashioned camera he was lugging around --gave my dad a huge tip-- I mean huge-- and so my dad--
Nelson: Wait, wait, wait. Stop babbling. Save the story for when Ana comes back. Here. Eat. Eat, Jikary.
Jikary (softly, with a little sob): Ai, mi madre . . . Chili, with real beef! More miracles . . . (After a quick subvocal prayer from Jikary, just sounds of eating for a minute, then) Nelson . . . this is delicious.
Nelson: Well, when you didn't come back by two, I figured you were having a hard time. So I ran out and got something.
Jikary: Thanks . . . (after a couple of more bites) I know you, too, man. Just ran out and got something, eh? Just ran out. Like you have money to burn --I had all the money-- and like this stuff is on every street corner. Ojala. [Yeah, right, tell me another one.] So, what movie did you have to trade for this?
Nelson: Pulp Fiction. No loss. I hate that crappy movie! (laughs) But Fernando, the head cook at Lazaro's, has no taste, so to speak. But he wants only original tapes; no Cubavision dubs. It helps him with his English. That movie will do wonders for his vocabulary.
Jikary: His chili tastes great, though. Thanks again, Nelson.
Nelson: Shut up and eat. There's more for later. I had the original sleeve for the movie, so Fernando gave me extra.

(After a few minutes of silence, punctuated only by eating sounds and Jikary's sighs of satisfaction, Ana returns, just as Jikary is finishing his meal)

Jikary: Welcome back, Ana dear. Better?
Ana: Much better! How about you, novio mio?
Jikary: I ate! I am as strong as an ant! Harrrggghh! Nelson saved me!
Nelson: "Ahh, nuts to you." So what the hell happened, anyway?
Jikary: Let me go wash my hands first. Hang on. I've been out there all day long. (Sounds of footsteps, then in a theatrical voice) And leave the jaba vinyl alone, if you value your lives. Hahahahaha! (Bathroom door slams)
Nelson: Not Oscar-level, that's for sure.
Ana: Loud enough, though. He's getting his strength back.
Nelson: Yeah . . .
(After a few beats of silence)
Ana: Oh! I heard more about The New Mango. From Ramona.
Nelson: Really? What?
Ana: Well, it's strange: I learned more, but it doesn't get really us closer to what The New Mango is.
Nelson: Ummm . . .
Ana: I know. Well, Distinto is working on a song with that title, like a sequel to "Hey, Mango," from back in the day. But he didn't make up those cards, he's reacting to the cards. Everybody is. Everybody will bounce off of it, as Ramona said. You can bet there will be counterfeit little white cards coming up soon, for example. But as for The New Mango itself, the real thing . . . it's like it's in hiding. It doesn't step up to center stage and say "Here I am!"
Nelson: It's shy. Or, waiting to be defined. Maybe we're supposed to define it. Maybe it's a lot of things . . . Can you imagine Cuba without mangoes? How many kinds of memories can you find in memories of eating mangoes? As many as there are Cubans. You said "bounce." A mirror bounces. It bounces yourself back to yourself. Maybe we decide what The New Mango is.
Jikary (as the bathroom door opens, footsteps come closer): You are The New Mango. A guardian angel told me.
Nelson (in English): "Exsqueeze me?"
Jikary: Listen, let's get that table over here. I've got lots to show and tell.
(Sounds of scraping, shuffling, settling.)
Nelson: You know what? I think it's coffee time down at Raphael's room. You got any spare change, Mr. Moneybags?
Jikary: He's still got that gig going? Coffee sounds good. (Rustle of paper.) Does he take dollars?
Nelson: Are you kidding? We could get twenty cafecitos with that money.
Jikary: Three will do, my good man. (Laughs) Isn't this great? When was the last time I was able to do that?
Ana: Never.
Jikary: Exactly. Never. It turned out to be a blessed day, that's all I can say . . . (begins to weep softly)
Nelson: I'll go get those coffees.
Ana (as he leaves): Ah, novio mio . . .
Jikary (after a deep breath): A long day . . .

(A few minutes later . . .)

[Mantis here: Jikary, Nelson, and Ana consider themselves performance artists, but earlier generations would more properly call them actors, monologists, storytellers, even jesters and maturing psychological magicians, given the conditions in which they have grown up. So here I present them as Jikary narrates his day's adventures. Sentences in quotations are in English, usually movie quotes or paraphrases.]

Jikary: This is good, sitting around the table with fresh hot cafecitos and my best friends in the world, with food in my stomach, with insulin in Ana's system, and even with lots of money left over in my pocket. And there's this big jaba vinyl at my feet, which has its own jabas vinyl inside it. I only had our 200 pesos [about $10 US.] Where did all this abundance come from, hmmm? There may even be loaves and fishes in here. Who can tell? . . . I can.

"Let's go back about two hours, and find the place where it all started."

Nelson (interjecting): Hey, that story ended badly--

Jikary: But this one doesn't, does it, hermano? So . . . this day in my life:

Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Kissed my sleeping beauty goodbye. Checked the contents of the survival kit: Granma for toilet paper; my libreta [ration book]; my New Testament; my Martin Cruz Smith Red Square wrapped in the Garcia Marquez Solitude cover; my ISA identity card; a banana; extra plastic bags; the Dillard List; and The Wish List. I had the money in my pocket. Good to--

Nelson: Wait. What's the Dillard List?

Jikary: Ummm . . .

Ana: Go ahead and tell him.

Jikary: I'm sure you remember Dillard Benlinederry from last year. We hung out a lot because of the Christian thing.

Nelson: A rich Christian.

Jikary: It happens. And you have to admit he was an okay guy.

Nelson: Yeah, he was okay. He wife was kind of obnoxious, though. What about him?

Jikary: A couple of days ago I checked my email at the school. There was one from him. He told me he and his wife Heather were coming down here for the Zeitgeist thing, and other business. They'll be here in a couple of days. Then he made a strange request. He asked me to make a list of as many Christian churches in Havana as I knew of--

Nelson (softly): Ai, mi madre . . .

Jikary: --whether they were still there or not. Any denomination of Christian; didn't have to be Catholic.

Nelson: You mean even if it's a parqueo [parking lot] now? Or boarded up?

Jikary: That's right.

Ana: He didn't tell you why, either, did he?

Jikary: No, but he wrote that he would give me his reason when he saw me.

Ana: But he knows about the recent dangerousness?

Jikary: I think so.

Ana: So he knows it's risky for you, but he still wants you to do it.

Jikary: Well--

Nelson: He knows you'll do it.

Jikary: I really think he's an okay guy.

Ana: He's a rich American art tourist, too, though. I just don't want him to use you.

Jikary: I want to do it, okay? I'm curious myself to know just how many churches were or are in the city . . . So anyway, I left early for Mass; I wanted to ask some questions, add to Dillard's list. These people know where a lot of churches are, or were.

Nelson: Man, I feel alarms going off. Just talking about it.

Jikary: We keep moving around. They can close the churches, but they can't close the Church. The Church is people.

Nelson: I don't just mean that. I mean that that list itself is dangerous.

Jikary: It's just paper, hermano. I could eat it if I had to.

Nelson: Yeah --"Why are you eating that paper, kid?"

Ana: Because he was hungry? Come on, Nelson. You know Jikary's going to do what Jikary's going to do. Can we get back to what happened next?

Jikary: So I went to Mass--

Nelson: The Travelling Tabernacle of Santo Peligroso.

Jikary: Santo Peligroso-Derrumbe. Use his full name. You should come with me sometime. It's like the early Christians.

Nelson: I could ask my babalawo [Santeria bishop], but I think I'll stick with Los Orishas. [The ensemble of Santeria deities]

Jikary: You know you don't believe in that!

Nelson: I was speaking of the musical group.

Ana: Are you guys working up an act, or can we hear what happened to Jikary today?

Nelson: I just like to jab him with my pitchfork once in awhile.

Jikary: Really, it's low pressure, man, you should come sometime. And it's usually not far away. Like this morning we met--

Nelson: Shhh! The Ears.

Ana: But I thought you checked the place out.

Nelson: What am I, a genius? I can program the VCR and connect a few cables. "That doesn't make me Yoda." I looked around the best I could, but if these MININT guys want to hide something, I'm not going to find it . . . Anyway, just assume it, like we do most places.

Jikary: I'm not worried. I don't think I broke any laws today, except the law of probability --more than once, in fact.

The problem was, the whole thing happened backwards, so that the insulin package was the first thing I was after and the last thing I got, but after my dad showed up the whole thing happened so fast, after so many long waits and delays and frustrations, that's it like I've got --I don't know-- shopper's whiplash?

(laughter)

Really! Remember I said let's go back about two hours and find the place . . . ? All the stuff you'll see come out this bag happened in the last two hours . . . and all because of an American. Wade Snow. One of Lisa Zeitgeist's art tourists, in fact. Can you believe it? He gave my dad a $500 tip! I--

Nelson and Ana: WHAT!? [Editor's note: This is about five years' income for the average Cuban.]

Jikary: De verdad. So my dad, he kept $200, then he drove around until he found me, and gave me $300. As you can see, I spent some.

Nelson: Unbelievable! Wade Snow. . . I know who you're talking about. He was here last year, too. Remember, guys, the photographer with the ancient camera?

Jikary: That's right! He was actually kind of goofy, I thought. And I liked that he lugged his own stuff around. No Cuban slogging behind him everywhere.

Nelson: I wouldn't give the guy too much credit. It was probably because the equipment was so damned delicate--

Ana: "Watch the plates!" Remember? He kept saying that. "I have to watch the plates!"He was so tightassed about his glass photo plates. We had a running gag about it for awhile. . . . And now that I think about it, that camera and that whole precious setup is like a slap in the face.

Jikary: What do you mean, Ana dear?

Ana: I don't know exactly. It's like he's underlining just how behind the times we are here --as if we're in a time warp-- but he's so special and talented he can handle it. As if we don't rate the best digital camera you can buy, and that anybody can use.

Nelson: Just another pretentious El Yuman.

Jikary (patting the bulging plastic bag): Well, that El Yuman sure was useful here, without him even knowing it. He won't ever know. Too bad . . .

Ana: No. Not too bad. I'm so grateful for what you brought me, darling, don't get me wrong. But it pisses me off that all that money and abundance just kind of spilled out of this guy's pocket. I mean, who could ever just hand over $500 to someone for driving a taxi for a few hours --a $50 tip, maybe. I don't know. I feel so bad even complaining. I know the money will help your dad, too. I wouldn't even have the strength to complain if it wasn't for this lunaticus Americanus. But it still makes me mad that we have to depend on the . . . what was that movie line about "drippings," Nelson?

Nelson: "Drippings from the master's table."

Ana: Exactly.

Jikary: You guys can look at it that way. Actually, I think the guy is like my dad said, a little loony, and probably harmless --just blundery and insensitive-- and the Lord used him as an instrument. Maybe that's just to make me feel better, but I feel better.

(laughter)

Nelson: Yeah, okay, I feel better, too.

Ana: When I was in the bathroom, I heard you say he was obsessed with the moon, looking and looking and taking pictures of the moon all night long. And it was a full moon . . . Who knows?

Jikary: Hey, Nelson, what about that other refreshment now?

Ana: Refreshment?

Jikary: Hang on . . .

(Clinking of glass and ice, then)

Nelson: Here we go. Diet Coke --yes, the forbidden El Yuman drink!-- for Ana, without the rum, but with the ice. And a Double Exe each for my miracle man and me.

Ana: Ahhh . . . This really is special, Jikary.

Jikary: They were there, at the last stop, where I scooped up a lot of stuff.

Nelson: You mean at La Sombrilla? [Umbrella Market]

Jikary: Are you kidding? That was the third place I was going to, after the first place and second place didn't have anything. But I ended up--

Ana: This really is getting backwards. Stop and rewind, novio mio. But first, a salute: To what? . . . Oh, I know: to The New Mango, whatever it is!

Nelson: Good one!

Jikary: Hallelujah!

(They clink glasses)

Ana: Sip, sip . . . make it last . . .

Jikary: There's more in here, novia. (Tapping the bag.)

(After a few moments of savoring their drinks)

Jikary: Okay. . . By the time I made it to the farmacia the line was already twenty people long. I counted. Nobody we knew. Not a long line, really, with an hour to wait until it opens and then another half-hour to get to the head of the line. I could be back even before Ana woke up. But before I took my place I looked through the iron gate. As usual, the entrance door was dark and blank and mute. . . You know, they know what they don't have before they open; why don't they put up a list of things they're out of --no hay this, no hay that-- so people don't wait in line for nothing?

Nelson: Because they can't find a piece of paper that long?

Jikary (chuckling): But really, they could put it on a blackboard, maybe--

Ana: Oh, novio, you're so sweet. You're right, a list would help the people. But think about it. A list would be a list of the failure of the Revolution to supply the people with their needs. A slap in the face of la lucha. Without the list, though, people stay in line, just in case what they needed came in. It does happen, right? Sometimes they do have what they're supposed to to have. The blank face, the empty blackboard, keeps the people in line. Also, if they're in the line, they're easy to find; they're not somewhere else, you know, making trouble.

Jikary: People seeing hope in a blank face. That's dark, my love.

Ana (sound of quick kiss): You see hope in an Invisible Man. Perhaps for some it hurts to show hope. Better to appear hard and aloof.

Jikary: Like Kiku?

Ana: Like Kiku.

Jikary: I love you, Ana.

Nelson: Ummm . . .

Jikary: Shut up, Nelson. Anyway, I took my place as the next temporary el ultimo. It was still pretty early, but it was warm already, with a warm wind coming from behind me --which was nice, at first anyway, since I didn't have to smell everybody else. We were on the sunny side, and of course there was no awning, so with the wind it got hot quickly. I just leaned against the wall. After a while I ate the banana. It was quieter than usual; no loud Ladas rattling at the curb, just a couple of bicitaxi guys playing dominos across the street. Some of the people in line were talking about last night's "Mesa Redondo" and bitching about Spain. There must have been a school nearby, because I could hear a chorus of reedy voices singing La Bayamesa, and then some recitations--

Ana (impulsively): The child's role is to study, to work, to learn--

Nelson (joining in): --to conquer the future. Wow, that seems like a long time ago.

Ana: Ten years.

Nelson: It seems like a hundred. Sorry, man, go ahead.

Jikary: No, I know, I was doing the same thing in my head. They drilled us well, didn't they?

Ana: To conquer the future . . . I always found that hard to connect with "To die for one's country is to live." (A long silence) Anyway, go on.

Jikary: Well, like I said, it was fairly quiet, and after the students settled down I just leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. And as soon as I closed my eyes somebody in an apartment just above started softly playing a couple of drums. I don't know all those drum names because it's not my tradition, but it sounded like a big one and a little one, and whoever was playing was using just their hands. The big one and the little one talking to each other, but the big one didn't overwhelm the little one. The little one had its strength, too, and used the power of the big drum like a source of energy . . . As you can tell, I kind of got into it, the drums took me away, and I . . .

Ana: What?

Jikary: Well . . . I must have fallen asleep, standing up against the wall, because when I woke up there were six more people in front of me than before.

Nelson (outraged): What!? La ronca los cojones! I can't believe people! How the fuck can they-- what are you laughing at?

Jikary (as his chuckles fade): Oh, listen, amigo, I was just as pissed as you at the time. And it gets better. You know who woke me up? Some jerk (forgive me, Lord) with a state-stamped libreta who wanted to make sure I knew he could cut in front of me in line. He went on up to the front. I checked to see if someone had stolen anything from the bag. No. But then the guy in front of me turned around and you know who it was? Half-Dollar Hernando.

Nelson: That asshole? I hate that guy! He uses people like pack animals. Don't tell me he offered you a job.

Jikary: He sure did. I mean, the guy had cut in front of me in line while I was asleep. No apology. Instead he says hi and holds up half a greenback between two of his dirty fingers. This one was a five.

Nelson: A five-dollar bill? Which you'd get the other half of after the job is done. I'm gonna pound the guy next time I see him. What did he want you to scavenge?

Jikary: Hickory wood. To smoke his sausage.

Nelson: He won't have a sausage by the time I--

Ana: Nelson, come on . . . Jikary, you didn't--

Jikary: Of course I didn't. He doesn't know anything about our stash. And never will. Just because I love Jesus doesn't make me a pushover. I told him I was busy. But then --people really are a test, you know?-- Hernando pockets his half-greenback and pulls out with the same two dirty fingers a NEW MANGO card and holds it up for me to see. "Two dollars," he says. He flipped it. WE ARE NEXT. I leaned in close and then --forgive me, Lord, but this was sweet-- I cracked up; I just started laughing so hard --because the card was a fake, hand-drawn with Crayola!

Nelson: ¡Ai, Cuba! Ana just predicted that a few minutes ago!

Jikary: Really? See, you are tuned in, novia. Well, anyway, it lifted my spirits. I said to him, "Hernando, I've seen a real NEW MANGO card," and you should have seen his eyes bug out. He wanted to know all about it. I said, "Why don't you move over to this side of me, and I'll tell you what I know." And he did, and I did, and then he went on his way.

I guess I don't have to tell you that by the time I made it to the counter there was no insulin. In fact, there was nothing else on the Wish List: no batteries, no . . . medicinal supplies --nothing. So I headed off on foot across town, to the state farmacia near Presidentes and La Rampa.

Ana: That's a hike.

Jikary: Well, I wasn't going to waste money on a taxi. The street was getting busy, food vendors were calling out the names of their specialties --everything sounded good-- but I kept my head down and plowed forward. One thing I noticed was a lot more kids chasing down tourists and begging --even running after panataxis in the middle of the street. Sad.

Anyway, again I guess I don't have to tell you that the second farmacia was out of insulin, too. I got a lot of reading done in line. But you know that area has a lot of clinics and hospitals, so I thought I'd try La Sombrilla to see if they carried any medical stuff. I was headed over there when my father pulled up in his panataxi Chevy. I wish I had a picture of the grin on his face.

He says, "Hop in quick, son, before somebody sees." Can't have a Cuban in a tourist taxi, can we? So I dove into the back seat and kept my head down as he took off toward the Malecon.

"I've been looking for you," he says. "I've got something for you. Keep down a minute. I need to get out of this traffic." He zigged and zagged --he keeps that car in great shape--

Nelson: The '56 four-door?

Jikary: Yeah, that's it, original chrome, aqua-and-white, tuck-and-roll same colors--

Ana (clearing her throat): Gentlemen--

Jikary: --and we ended up on the Malecon, headed west. As soon as I could sit up I asked him to turn around and take me to Old Town, where there was another state farmacia I wanted to try. He asked for what. I told him. He said, "I can do better than that. A lot better." He pulled over into a deserted alley and told me to get in front. That's when he took out the money --ten twenties, four fifties, and a Benjamin. He spread them out on the seat between us and we looked at them for a minute. Five hundred dollars. It was more money than I had ever seen in one place in my life. To me, it was a miracle: the loaves and the fishes. To my atheist-physicist father, it was just luck. But there it was, undeniable. Then he gave me the Benjamin and the two hundred in twenties and said, "I'll tell you the story while we go get Ana's insulin."

So on the way to Miramar and the tourists shops he told me about Wade Snow and the moon. I listened, but I kept looking at the money in my hands, too. When he was done, I took out the Wish List. He asked me what it was. I handed it over, and as we rolled down the Malecon he was bobbing his head over to the List and then back to the road, over to the List and then back to the road, and smiling all the while.

"A shopping list," he said.

"A wish list," I answered.

"Why all the crossing-outs and erasures?"

"We go over it from time to time."

"Well, depending on how you want to spend that money, today a lot of your wishes come true," he says to me. "Though I suppose you'd say it was the hand of the Lord. You know, I had no idea that American guy was going to unload all that money on me. I actually wondered if he did. When he handed me that wad, of course I refused, but he insisted. I made sure he knew what he was doing. He said, 'You've been really patient and and I've been really demanding. Please, take it, you've earned it.' And here we are."

I could almost smell wet concrete the place was so new. My dad said it was a new idea, created to cater to tourists who wanted one-stop shopping, and didn't want to walk from the farmacia to the clothes store to the camera place. Some enterprising Spaniard, naturally, consolidated his stores into one. My dad said he knew somebody who worked there. If we gave this guy a couple of dollars, he would help us find the stuff on The Wish List.

Listen, I know from movies, but here I saw it for real: in front of this big store there was no line. We walked right in through the double-glass doors, which opened automatically. Cool inside. I don't even remember the name of the place, but it was huge and bright and full of stuff; my dad had to hold me by the arm as we went in. There were extrañeros everywhere. "Stick with me," he said. I keep forgetting he drives these people everywhere; he's used to them.

Nelson: What did they look like?

Jikary: Come on, Nelson, you're not some native from the jungle. They looked just like the art tourists we see every year: fat white shark bait. And I noticed there were very few Cubans, except those who worked there. My dad found his guy, Ramon, handed over the Wish List, and explained what we wanted. Ramon scans the list and I notice his eyebrows going up. He looks up and asks if we have the money for all this. I let him have a peek at the Benjamin and the twenties. He grins and says fine and leads us over to the farmacia window, where there is a line. I was almost relieved. Ramon told me I could get all the medical stuff --the alcohol and cotton swabs and other stuff beside the insulin-- right there. That's right, Nelson, I've even got some Q-tips in here! (Slaps the plastic) So I waited while he took my dad off with him to get a cart for-- well, why wait any longer? Let's make a long story short!

(Sounds of plastic rustling, items spilling, more plastic rustling as Jikary upends the big jaba vinyl. Bag within bag is emptied. Gasps of startled pleasure from Nelson and Ana punctuate their exclamations.)

Jikary: Let's see now: t-shirts, socks, your new Converses, Nelson-- "shaddup," as you are fond of saying-- Batteries! Two kinds, for the OneTouch meter and the phone. Isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs, Q-tips, soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, toothpaste . . . Those jeans you needed, Ana.

Ana: ¡Ai, novio mio! They're just right!

Jikary: You wrote the size down. Let's see . . . Duct tape, masking tape, transparent tape, and both scissors and a new pocket knife to cut them with. Notebooks, pens, pencils . . . Hey, Nelson, here you go.

Nelson: Hollywood Cigarettes! Three packs! Nobody has these!

Jikary: Nobody around here, anyway. But now you do. You know what I think about the habit, but . . . we all need what we need. And Hollywood? How could I resist? Like that kid said in the movie, "It's definitely you." Oh, but how will you light them? With these.

Nelson: Six disposable lighters! Those will last me forever. I know a refiller. Don't worry, man. I won't go through the smokes like The Terminator went through ammo. I'm going to space them out, over weeks, and savor each and every one. No black tobacco for me. This is . . .

Jikary: I know, it's hard to finish the thought; and there's even more. Ana, here's a 2-liter Diet Coke bottle, and a box of cinnamon-fructose cookies --can you believe they had those? but Ramon said that the store was planning on buying even more "diabetic-friendly" food. What does that tell you about our foreign visitors? Sad, huh? Anyway . . . Oh! Nelson, check these VCR tapes out. I didn't buy these, my dad was carrying them around for someone you both know in Santa Clara, but he hadn't had a chance to get out there yet. He said you'd know how to get them to where they belong.

Nelson: These are them! Sure, I know what he's talking about. "Zorro."

Ana: "Say what?"

Nelson: Balthazar Roa. The colonel. My dad said all the scientists in the nuclear program used to call him that. You know, zar . . . roa? Zorro.

Ana: Uh-oh. Say no more.

Nelson: No, it's okay, he's not . . . radioactive anymore, so to speak. He's a machinist and petty farmer out in Santa Clara. His son Beny, and Beny's buddy Yasmani, are really into natural science and physics. They're part of the Prodigy Program, you know? Well, Yasmani's older brother Rocco--

Jikary: The music guy?

Nelson: That's him. He knows I'm into movies, and he's got his own wish list. These are great: the first two I know --the Jacques Cousteau is for Yasmani, because that kid loves the ocean, and Apollo 13 has to be for Beny, Zorro's kid, who loves space. This third one must be for Beny, too: a CNN Science Special on Space Elevators. Hmmm . . . Space Elevators! I don't know what they are, but I want to be on one!

Jikary: So you know what to do with those?

Nelson: No problem. I'll pass them on.

Jikary: Okay, let's clear the table and stack this stuff to the side. Because there's one final thing.

Nelson: What is this, Christmas? It's A Wonderful Life?

Jikary: "Oh, brother, where art thou?" Come on. We know it's not a wonderful life. I don't know why all this abundance happened, except for the obvious evidence of the Lord's hand behind it all. Hallelujah for that! But take a deep breath and let's look around at the blessings for a second. And let's use them. My father said something today, when we were on our way back here with this bulging package between us on the car seat, full of its capitalistic abundance. You know my father is a nuclear physicist and a deliberate person. But, as I said, he's a physicist, so he must be open to "the stray neutrino thought," as he used to say: the maverick angle. What I would call the Holy Spirit, of course, whispering in his ear. He says to me, "El Yuma has its uses."

Ana: What do you think he means?

Jikary: It's a change of attitude. Like with the big drum and the little drum. They're a lot alike, they come from the same source, one's just bigger than the other. The big drum is not the enemy, but neither is it the boss. The little drum is not intimidated by the big drum, and learns from it. That's the new part. The little drum uses the power of the big drum for its own growth, to become its own big drum. And eventually the big drum will be learning from the little drum, who is little no more.

(after a pause)

Ana: Sounds good, my love. If only it was a matter of drums. . . But, uh, what did you have us clear the table for?

Jikary: Oh! . . . Oh, yeah, this is really the best. This happened when my dad pulled the Chevy up in front of our ISA dormitory. He was exhausted after all that driving and shopping, but you know what? He said, "What a day, eh boy?" and slid across the seat and grabbed me into his arms; gave me a long hug, and kissed me on the forehead. He hasn't done that in years. I tell you, the day was full of answered prayers.

Ana: And that was the thing--?

Jikary: No. I got out and we waved goodbye and he drove away. I was tired, and I stood there on the sidewalk getting the bag cradled just right, and catching my breath. Then I headed for the main lobby of ISA. I was almost to the door when this guy comes up to me. He was short and black, and he didn't look Cuban, and as soon as he spoke I woke up real quick.

Ana: How come?

Jikary: Because he had an African accent. I didn't know this guy, but I had an idea-- he was a refugee, or a getaway, from Juventud. [An African holdover from one of Castro's failed social transplant experiments.] He slides up to me --no introduction, no hey my name is, just holds out something between two black fingers and says, "He said you should have this," and this is what he gave me.

(Gasps)

"Who said?" I asked him. But he stepped back. "It's you," he said. And he smoothed away like a shadow.

(Long silence)

Ana: This is ours? Nobody's going to take it away?

Jikary: Here it is. There it sits. A NEW MANGO card. A real one. And after all the money burning through my fingers today, and even somebody trying to sell me a fake one of these, this little white card floats into our hands at the very last as a gift. It settled into my palm like a dove. If that isn't the Lord, I don't know what is.

Nelson: "It's you," he said?

Jikary: As in, "You are The New Mango."

Nelson: And we're next, somehow? How? How does that work?

Ana: I guess that's what we need to figure out.

Nelson: But why? Who said? Who is the he?

Ana: We're just getting started here, Nelson; slow down.

Nelson: Yeah. Yeah. You're right. Sorry. Yeah. This is a lot to take in. What a day! You know, I'm gonna take my riches, and my smokes, and go find out about Space Elevators. My man, I really don't know what to say. I didn't do anything for these gifts--

Jikary: You're still here, aren't you? And when was the last time you caught a break?

Nelson: I don't need a break. "Ain't the hard time been invented I can't handle."

Jikary: Okay, tough guy. Take a break anyway.

Nelson: Oh, yeah.

(Sounds of gathering things)

Nelson: Thanks for everything, Jikary. I'll tell your dad next time I see him, too. Anyway, I'll see you two in class. Good night. (murmuring softly on the way out) Ai, mi madre . . .

(Sound of door closing. Sounds of snuggling)

Ana: Novio mio. . .

Jikary: . . . Ummm . . .

Ana: . . . I found the other things you had in the bag with the insulin. The tampons, the condoms . . . The birth-control pills. Do you realize that tonight we can be together for the first time without fear? And in the days to come --just us.

Jikary: My love . . .

Ana: Oh! but you must be exhausted.

Jikary: Don't you remember? I had a nap.

(Soft laughter)

[Mantis here: And now, as Nelson would direct it, we fade to black.]

La Pionera and The New Mango, Part Two, Section 9: Lisa Zeitgeist Under The Influence

by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King

Section 9: Lisa Zeitgeist Under The Influence

[Monday afternoon, May 30, 2005. MININT. Email intercept between Central Arizona University (CAU) Museum Curator Lisa Zeitgeist, in her suite at the Golden Tulip Hotel, Havana, Cuba, and Ted Player, American art collector and Director of Special Projects at CAU, at his computer in his office there in Scottsdale, Arizona. (Mantis here: Ted Player is ultimately responsible for developing an upcoming, comprehensive Cuban Art Show, based on the collection the museum --meaning Lisa Zeitgeist-- has been accumulating over ten years; this year's acquisitions will be crucial to the big exhibition. He is scheduled to arrive by plane on Wednesday.)]

Ted darling,

Things are strange here this year. I need you down here as soon as possible to help me see if I'm seeing clearly. I know I can't hurry anything, either; it's a stupid request. I also know I don't seem to be writing clearly, and that's another indication that things are . . . strange. I'm just panicking, frankly. I keep thinking of cracks, for some reason, cracks and crumbling. And a whirling vertigo feeling, like a whirlpool. I know I sound loony, but it's spooky here. Fuck! I wish I had your big bear arm to comfort me, Teddy boy.

I couldn't sleep last night because of a single piece of art --a black-and-white woodcut-- I saw in Guillermo Gorgojo's office yesterday. I'm a nervous wreck, and I must admit I acted . . . strangely with Guillermo. I think I even tried to take the thing away from him, but it seems kind of foggy now. I think we parted on bad terms. That damned print . . . There's twelve of them, actually, made by a graduate student with the ubercool name of Flash No More. (He's both your gender and color preference, from what I hear. So get down here before Yoan snags him!)

I won't try to describe what I saw in that print, except that the shapes are regularly geometric and laid out in a four by three grid --at least, at first. The thing is, after you look at them for just a few moments, the elements seem to shift, morph, and reshape, and what I saw was scary, because it was as if something rich, and something that would guarantee riches, was shown to me, only to be taken away as soon as I saw it. It happened over and over, a kind of helpless rushing vertigo feeling --the world dropping out from under me, sucking my stomach hollow-- and that was before Guillermo refused to let me take them to show our visitors.

Because they could make a fortune, Ted, or at least a big splash, if we editioned them carefully, and got more of the same from Flash No More. Guillermo says he's stubborn, maybe even anti-American, but I haven't met many Cubans yet who can turn down what's green and folds. Yoan and Abel are coming over in a little while, and I'll get them to ask around about this student. (He's also a tattooist, so he shouldn't be hard to run down.)

And speaking of students, there are some other strange things going on.

It's as if the older students are with our program --the seniors and the graduate students-- but the lower three levels . . . they seem remote, even unfriendly. I remember when they used to crowd around me. I'm worried about how many studio visits we'll be able to arrange after the Lecture Series begins. I was counting on some of the younger students preparing mini-shows, but when I toured the ISA the other day a lot of them weren't even there, their doors were locked. And the few I saw in the common room ignored me! The other day three of them really treated Yoan and Abel with disrespect. That's what I mean by cracks. We need those student artists!

Maybe they're in hiding because of this New Mango thing. You don't know about this, but in the last four days these little white cards have been popping up all over town. Each card says the same thing: on one side, THE NEW MANGO, on the other WE ARE NEXT. Guillermo told me that Carlos Lage thinks it's an art prank, but as far as we know it isn't. Still, maybe the students are afraid of cops or MININT coming around, so they're laying low or visiting relatives for a day or two. Fine. As long as they show up for the Lecture Series. Oh, I know they have to, but still --they have to. You see what I mean by worried? We have lots of people coming down. Which reminds me . . .

Another surprise, at least to me: Heather and Dillard will be coming down soon, too. Did you know that? She told me just last week that they were going to Bermuda. I wonder what's going on? What changed her mind? She knows I have to retire after this next exhibition, so she couldn't be trying to horn in on anything, could she?

Just in case, though, don't tell her or Dill about this guy Flash No More, or his monoprints.

Thank God Rosa has me lined up for a beauty trip at some special salon out in Santa Clara this weekend. I'm . . . I feel so out of it. It's those damn images I can't get out of my head. Maybe her beauty lady can work some voodoo, and wash them away.

In the meantime, there's always room service.

Love,

Lisa

PS. Email me, even if it's just a verbal hug.

[Mantis here. An hour and two mojitos later, Ted Player responded from Arizona:]

Lisa my love,

I got you right here. I'm hugging you right now. We singles need to stick together, even though you're straight and I'm gay. I lean on you, too, lady, so be strong for me, too, okay? We've got a big exhibition on the boards. Your crowning jewel, darling, so let's stay steady.

I made a few calls about the Benlinederrys. Nobody knew anything. So I decided to call Dillard himself, what the hey. You're going to love this. He's such a sweet guy, and you know about his beliefs, of course. (I own one of those handout crosses of his, actually.) He'd feel bad about lying. Well, darling, they're coming to Cuba this year because the Lord told him to! I'm not kidding! No details, but nothing with an art angle that I could tell. Just coincidence? I wonder how he talked Heather into it? As Dillard would say, "The ways of the Lord . . ."

It does sound like it's a different island from last year. Here I have to confess that as I read your first paragraph I shuddered, and flashed on an image of a big black hand reaching out to me and tapping me on the shoulder. I actually flinched, darling. Now, I don't claim to be psychic, but I do claim to be sensitive to those influences. And you started it, anyway, with those voodoo prints from --what a name!-- Flash No More.

So. I wish I could get there sooner, because I can't do anything from here. My contacts in Havana, as you might guess, don't have internet access. I need to be on the street there, at sea level, on the Malecon, so just hang tight --I mean, loose, darling-- until Wednesday. Have a mojito for me.

Love,

Ted

PS. Are my arms really that hairy?

[Two hours and four mojitos later, feeling little pain, Lisa answers the door of her suite for artists Abel Barroso and Yoan Capote. MININT captured the audio easily, from two different microphones. The conversation is in English, mostly.]

Lisa Zeitgeist: Boys! Good boys! Good! Good to see you, don't wanna be alone. Spooky here now!
Abel Barroso: Spooky? Hey, Lisa, be cool.
Lisa (audible deep breath): Right, right . . .
Yoan Capote: Hi, Lisa. Don't worry. We'll always be here for you. Just give us a call . . . That reminds me, can we plug our chargers in somewhere?
Lisa: Wherever . . . Wait, Yoan, c'mere . . . You smell . . . smoky but sweet. What is that, some new cologne?
Yoan: Oh, we just came from Distinto's. New Mango!
Lisa: Oh! So you found out what it was?
Yoan: What what was?
Lisa: The New Mango, Yoan.
Yoan: That wasn't from Distinto; that was from Fab and Rocco. Distinto's writing a song called--
Lisa (in a loud, distinct voice): What was from Fab and Rocco?
Yoan: Oh! This weed, this mota they have. That's what they were calling it, because of the way it tastes and smells. That must be what you smell. We smoked some. We got some. You want some?
Lisa (after a long sigh): No, I'm old style; I'll stick to alcohol. Let's sit down . . . So this whole New Mango thing could be about marijuana?
Abel: I have no idea, Lisa . . . Why are you shaking your head?
Lisa: Because it doesn't make sense to advertise marijuana, does it? Those little white cards . . . you don't see, do you?
Abel: I guess not. I sure know Fab and Rocco wouldn't print up cards. I think they're just picking up on it, like Distinto with his song. Nobody knows what the New Mango is.
Lisa: His song?
Abel: Yeah, we tried to tell you, Distinto's writing a song called "The New Mango." But he didn't make those cards. He got one from somebody, then got the idea for the song. Okay?
Lisa: Who?
Abel: Who what?
Lisa: Who gave Distinto the card?
(a short silence, then:)
Yoan: You know, I think he said it was slipped under his studio door.
Abel: That's right.
Lisa: You guys . . . yeah, okay, I'm getting it. I don't even live on this bizarre island, but I get it. Jesus.
Yoan: You get what?
Lisa: I mean that people --foreigners, extrañjeros-- must hand you two artists business cards all the time. You don't see that they must be rare on the street. Am I wrong?
Yoan: I guess not. But what can these little white cards, you know . . . do, anyway?
Lisa (after another long sigh): You must have smoked a lot of that weed.
Abel: Hey, come on, Lisa, have another mojito.
Lisa: Thanks for reminding me. (Sounds of telephone business, where she orders several drinks from room service. Then:) Look, you guys, remember during one of the recent Havana Bienales, how one of the artists --I don't know the name, you probably do-- simply distributed full, clean, white rolls of toilet paper in derrumbes all over the city?
Yoan: Yeah. That was dumb; what do you do, sell pictures of them?
Lisa: I think so, but that's not the point; the point was, they stood out. A l'il tiny roll of toilet paper throws a whole city square into perspective. Do you see? These l'il white cards are . . . are huge. (A giant sob at the end.)
Abel: Lisa, Lisa, settle down.
Yoan: Yeah. They don't really say anything, do they?
Lisa: (after calming down) WE ARE NEXT. What do-- how do those words, how does that phrase, strike you, Yoan . . . Abel?
Abel: Seems pretty arrogant. Like they know something everybody else doesn't. Like they're better. It pisses me off, to tell you the truth.
Yoan: Seems pretty lame to me, if they're contras. What are they going to do, change everything with dumb little white cards? It's vague, too. There's nothing to hold onto. What are they about, whoever they are? It's too vague. It's stupid.
Lisa: For me, it's that WE . . . WE . . . WE. For some reason, it doesn't sound collective, it's--

(she is interrupted by delivery of several drinks by room service. After the three are settled again, and she takes a long pull, then:)

--oh yeah, that's-- oh, yeah, now listen-- where was I?
Yoan: Something about the WE in WE ARE NEXT?--
Lisa: Okay, I got it. It's not really collective, see, because look at the other side: MANGO is singular. One image, many people, and direction. Yes. Out of many, one. E pluribus unum. In vagueness is strength, maybe. What are the first three words of the US Constitution? WE THE PEOPLE. Who are the people? ALL the people. This is . . . this is new.
Yoan: New . . . How?
Lisa: . . . Let me put it this way: is this New Mango thing in in in --(pause)--in any way-- connected to Him?
(a long pause, then:)
Abel: I see what you mean.
Yoan: Yeah . . . He would make sure it was connected to Him. Shit, man! Abel! does this mean we're in trouble?
Abel: Settle down, Yoan, it's just a song, and we're just doing the--
Yoan: Which goes "You are the New Mango"--
Abel: --CD cover. Hey! Will you please--?
Lisa: CD cover? What--
Yoan: We're screwed.
Abel: We're fine! Come on, Yoan. It's his song, remember? and we've already got some interns to do the real work . . . and besides, it's harmless. Remember the original Mango song, back in 1999? It seemed kind of subservise --"Isn't it time to fall from the tree?"-- but everybody let it go, everybody danced to it, probably even Him. So what's the big deal?
Lisa: It isn't 1999.
Abel: Uh--
Lisa: What CD cover?
Yoan: Abel, we're screwed . . .
Lisa: What interns?
Abel: Three of the seniors. Look, Yoan--
Yoan: Yeah, what?
Abel: Listen. It doesn't have to be a big thing, or political. You just made a video with a lot of logos in it, no? a lot of slogans and claims. Big, unrealistic claims and ambiguous slogans. That's what the whole thing was about, wasn't it?
Yoan: That's right . .
Abel: It's like Nike, no? "Just Do It." Just do what? Run. Exercise. Fill in the blank. Sounds a lot like "We are next" to me. Next to what? Next to nothing. Lisa, I don't think the vagueness is strong. I'm with Yoan: it's stupid. It's empty.
Lisa: Maybe. I'm still real uneasy about the unofficial part.
Yoan: Mierda, and you not even Cuban. Here's another thought, and it's happened before: what if He is behind it? Like flypaper: set out something sweet, and see who comes around. See? Paranoia is second nature to us here . . . I think Abel's right; still, I'm glad we got some interns to do the work.
Abel: And, Lisa, like Yoan said, we're paranoid as it is here anyway, you know, so we don't need . . . Never mind that. You've been jittery as hell since we came in. What's worrying you, anyway?
Lisa (after another near-sob): Thanks for noticing, Abel. I mean it.
Abel: Well, what is it?
Lisa: I saw something. Just a piece of art. Student work. I've seen thousands of pieces of art, and I've been swept off my feet lots of times. But this thing . . . It's the first time a piece of art scared me.
Abel: Student work? Whose? Do we know it?
Lisa: That's what I wanted to ask you. They're monoprints by a second-year student who goes by the name Flash No More. He--
Yoan: ¡Mierda! That guy! (sounds of footsteps receding)
Abel: Here we go again.
Lisa: What the hell? Where's he going? Yoan! (to Abel) Why did he run down the hallway?
Abel: We had a kind of strange run-in with the guy at Distinto's.
Lisa: So you do know him?
Abel: No; we've only seen him around, from a distance. Never close up. He had been there to give Distinto a tattoo --oh! you'll love this-- a tattoo of a mango. We're kind of --we don't see a lot of the younger students; I mean, it's always the seniors and post-graduates who knock on our doors, or call us, or who we end up hanging out with. So this guy Flash No More, we don't know much about him.
Lisa: Or his work?
Abel: Or his work.
Yoan (reappearing): He's creepy.
Abel: He's scary.
Yoan: He's creepy as hell!
Lisa: What happened? What did he say?
(pause)
Abel: Uh. Nothing. He was leaving as we were coming in the door, and when he saw us he--
Yoan: Turned to stone. Literally.
Abel: Don't talk crazy, Yoan. Lisa, he's just like a lot of these younger artists; for some reason, they don't like us. He just stood there until we left.
Yoan: No. He turned to black basalt right in front of us. And nobody moved until he decided they could.
Lisa: Too much mota, eh, Yoan? Maybe he's just homophobic.
Abel: No. It's not that. Besides, I'm not gay, but this vibe came off of him--
Yoan: You weren't there. The guy is intense.
Lisa: I'm not surprised. So is his art. It's got me all -- (gulp). You haven't seen any of it?
Abel: No, like I said, I guess we're not pure enough for some of these kids. What's it like?
Lisa: Well, I only saw one print, but Guillermo told me they're all based on a simple four by three grid. But the patterns inside each cell . . . again, geometric and abstract, but not for long . . . It isn't Op art, but the lines move.
Abel: What was it called?
Lisa: What was . . . ?
Abel: The print, Lisa, what was--?
Lisa: Untitled, but the whole suite of twelve is called The Abakua Derivations.
Yoan: Abakua! Great! ¡La ronca los cojones! I knew the guy was dangerous!
(receding footsteps again)
Abel (low voice): Honestly, Lisa, I've never seen him so jumpy. He's usually so smooth, you know; Yoan rolls with it. This isn't like him.
Lisa: You see? I know how he feels. Something's in the air.
Abel: Yeah --New Mango. (Loudly) Yoan, I'm loading the pipe!
Lisa: Are you sure you should--?
Abel: Don't worry about it. But just to be safe --hey, Yoan, get a towel, would you, to roll up by the door? Come on, man, come back here; you need to relax.
(sound of Yoan returning)
Yoan (mumuring): Abakua, New Mango, a guy who's some kind of shapeshifter . . . (sounds of lighter and puffing)
Lisa: Well, we've all got to keep it together. We've got loads of collectors coming down this year --more than ever--
Abel and Yoan (together): Really?
Lisa: Oh, yeah. Dick and Kathleen van Ness are bringing a dozen for sure. Gregory and Cynthia D'Escher are coming down with two more couples. Jon and Jen Spaddock will be coming for the first time. New money. Who else . . . ?
Abel and Yoan (together): Benjamins . . .
Lisa: Excuse me? I don't know any Benjamins.
(Abel and Yoan chuckle)
Abel: You know them all, Lisa!
Lisa: What are you babbling about?
Yoan: Benjamins. Hundred-dollar bills. It's just a new slang term for tourists --the rich ones, anyway. I think it comes from El Yuma gangs.
Lisa: Ummmm . . . sounds anti-Semitic. Why don't you call them Franklins?
(more laughter)
Yoan: We didn't start it, Lisa. We don't control it. Like the New Mango. You know the chismorreo [Havana street talk]; it's the only thing on Earth faster than light. And we don't care if somebody's Jewish or not. Who else is coming, anyway?
Lisa: . . . Well, Wade Snow is already here.
Yoan: The art mag guy? What's that called again? Fade? Made?
Lisa: Wade's, Yoan, Wade's Art Review. You know that.
(Abel and Yoan crack up.)
Yoan: Yeah, I know . . .
Abel: El Yumans . . .
Lisa: You guys are having fun. These people are your bread and butter, you know, you ought to have some . . . (Sudden silence, followed by a long pause) . . . What?
Abel (coldly): Don't you mean our rice and beans?
Lisa: Take it easy, Abel--
Yoan: Don't worry, Lisa; we'll behave. We'll be good little Cuban artists.
Lisa: You guys, I didn't mean to--
Abel: We know what we're doing. We've been doing it for ten years. You don't have to insult us. You really must be nervous.
Lisa: You're right. I'm sorry. And I'm waaay past nervous.
Abel: Abakuuuuuaaa . . .
Yoan: Abel! Don't even joke about it.
Abel: Yeah, yeah . . . the Ears, the Shadow . . .
Lisa: What are you talking about?
Yoan: He means They're listening, probably.
Lisa: Here? In this hotel? In this room? But why?
Yoan: Control, of course. They listen everywhere, probably. We just assume it. It's safer that way.
Lisa: But then won't they come arrest you for the weed?
Abel: No. You're our protection. MININT would never hassle you. After all, you're their bread and butter.
Lisa: Touché. But doesn't the same thing apply to you guys?
Abel: Oh, Lisa . . . We love you, but we're worlds apart. Look --what's this?
Lisa: Your money clip, with your money in it. So?
Abel: It's a silver dollar sign money clip, and it's filled with dollars, mostly. I'm a dollar Cuban; I'm also a euro Cuban and a dinar Cuban--
Yoan: --I got paid in Kruggerands once--
Abel: And I've been paid in Maple Leaves. And He has taken a bite of every one. You think we swim like fish in this society, free as you please. No. In fact, because of the money, because of our "success," we probably have more Eyes and Ears on us than regular Cubans.
Yoan: And The Shadow.
Abel: Yeah. There's this guy, or more than one guy, who sneaks into a lot of artists' studios --New Inventado types, mostly-- and checks things out. Because we've been off the Island, you know. We call him the Shadow. Sometimes he or they makes sure the artist knows somebody was there --rearranging things. Again, it's about control. . . . So yeah, Lisa, we have money. We don't starve. We can provide for our families. We wear the ropa de marca and the bling-bling and we breeze in and out of the hotels with just a nod to Security. We have fairly new, fairly sturdy homes. But He looms over it all, remember. We never forget Him --even we, insulated with our satellite dishes, are not allowed to-- and we never forget that He could take it away in a heartbeat, with one sip of his tea. It may look like we're free and easy, but --"You can play with the leash--"
Yoan: "--but not with the dog." The way we're talking I'm expecting the Roaches at the door any minute.
Abel: Especially when you call them Roaches. Settle down, Yoan. Haven't you been listening? More collectors than ever before, Lisa said. I think He will want the whole Lecture Series to go as smoothly as possible.
Lisa: Yes! Finally, an encouraging word! I'll drink to that!
Yoan (sotto voce): You're right, Abel. Fidel always follows the money.
Abel: And we're his obedient children.

LIFE IS HARD

Nature Photography by Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary:
Hard Times, Hard Times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door, Oh!
Hard Times, Hard Times, come again no more . . .

Stephen Foster

Hair & Jealousy

Give me a head with hair -- long, beautiful hair--
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen--
Give me it down to there -- Hair!
Shoulder length or longer --Hair!
Here baby, there mama --Everywhere dah-dee-dah-dee Hair!
Flow it!
Show it!
Long as God can grow it, My Hair!

Jealousy is not a pretty sight.

Take A Deep Breath Of Death

by Jerome du Bois

Almost three years ago (!) on this blog I posted a long piece about Spanish art-fascist Santiago Sierra. Not a word since, and I haven't followed his trajectory. Still, today my piece is the #5 Google for the guy, out of 140,000 citations.

Not bad. But it's had about as much effect on his trajectory as a sparrow fart in a hurricane. The sonofabitch is Teflon who can't lose, and who always gets to pocket his fee. In one of his latest pieces, he ordered hundreds of women to face each other in a long narrow corridor and repeat for hours, "Give me money, give me money." That is the kind of creep he is. [Update: Catherine reminds me these women were paid and they complied. Right on. It's on both them and him. We don't see them as victims, but whores for him.]

And now I resent feeling obliged to return to the little sadist again. But when anyone spits on the Jews and their worst tragedy --and even twists the motives for the Holocaust-- I can't let it go by. Can't anyone else hear the strained, anxious warble of the canary in the coal mine? Because it's not carbon monoxide --don't get distracted-- it's methane from the manure Santiago Sierra is shovelling.

As I mentioned, I've ignored this cruel clown's bullyings for years. Every once in awhile a sycophantic remora would send me a mean email defending him. But Tuesday the sitemeter alerted me that something new was going down. So I Google his name, and what do I see?

The rotten bastard continues to pour salt in our wounds --the Holocaust, this time-- while wearing the pious face of "promoting debate." What's there to debate about the Holocaust? Its "banalization," its "trivialization," apparently. And then he goes and contributes to those very conditions, the asshole. Which is his agenda, I'm convinced. The title's a tell: 245 Cubic Meters. Yawn your way to the death chamber. Let me be clearer: I believe he wouldn't mind if they went back, Jack, and did it again.

I'm not going to review the piece. Instead I want to step back and picture the whole scene, and review how everyone acted; and then I'll focus on the artist's statement, which proclaims a pernicious lie to hide a horrible truth.

The piece has been "suspended" now, but enough people experienced it on that Sunday opening for the artist to declare success and let the drama play out. He's already won. He's even going to leave his little petty kingdom as a privileged Spaniard in the class-conscious Mexican oligarchy --he's not exactly "street," you know-- and attend symposia in Pulheim convened obediently by the supine liberal tolerators, who are deeply drunk on the Rebarbarization Of The World. He's got his debate now, complete with city officials and art flacks and even Jewish protestors. (Oriana Fallaci calls them all "the rainbow-scarved ones." Perfect. The American version, perfectly coined by my wife Catherine King, is "The All-American Anti-American Success Story.")

Enough people in the area of interest -- I mean both geographically and politically-- knew the lineaments of this atrocity far in advance of its creation. For example, there must have been a series of permits, including from fire department officials. So my question, to all the officials, including Steven Kramer of the Jewish Council, is

Why didn't the debate take place before the Damned Thing was made, thus defusing it and preventing its realization?

Honestly, if they knew it was going to be protested and shut down, why did everyone let it happen? Everyone played along. The mayor was either clueless or slyly antisemitic. From what I've read, the previous installations in the synagogue ignored its religious reference. Sierra stabs it through the heart, and everyone let it happen. It's sick. They've gone stupid over there, to let a mere artist play the whole town like a cheap accordion.

Now, to the artist's statement, via a commenter on a BBC blog, with my emphases:

THE ARTIST POSTED THIS TEXT AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE SYNAGOGUE AT PULHEIM-STOMMELN:

The City Council of Pulheim extended an invitation for me to work in Stommeln's synagogue to honor the memory of the innumerable Jews who, in order to rob them of their possesions, were brutally murdered in the 20th Century. The result is a work I have called 245 m3 in allusion to the empty space of this synagogue, which is no longer used as a place of prayer. 245 m3 is a work against the trivialization of our memory of the Holocaust, a work about our chronic and exploited feeling of guilt, about the exploited and their exploiters. Above all, however, 245 m3 is meant to be a work about the industrialized and institutionalized Death from which [?] the European peoples of the world have lived and continue to live. [??] All of this in the conviction that this project cannot engender empathy, but only the consciousness and certainty of individual death.
It is dedicated to each and every victim of the State and Capital.
March 11, 2006. Santiago Sierra.

See the lies? The Jews were not killed for their money. If that had been the case, if the Nazis wanted riches, the Nazis would have exploited them, not exterminated them. They would have used the Jews the way Santiago Sierra uses everybody he can turn the dials on. Everyone knows or should know that the Nazis killed the Jews because they were Jews, but Santiago Sierra says, "Look over there! The evil culprit is capitalism!" He plays the anarcho-Marxist while pocketing euros and what's green and folds all over that self-benighted continent. The truth is that Santiago Sierra tries to hide the true motives of the Nazis, and to equate them with capitalism. That is evil. Capitalism is good. And Santiago Sierra is an evil hypocrite.

And he's gold over there. As the Jews like to say, "Go figure." Well, I just did.

Trotting Out The Twerp

[For background, readers should consult Catherine King's Open Letter to the President of the USA, with which I totally concur.]

by Jerome du Bois

The same day I started reading Oriana Fallaci's The Force Of Reason --a righteous response to Islamic lies and social aggression-- I came upon the story embodied by the image below, which we captured for our Pink series:

Absurd arrogance fosters outrage. Who the fuck is this twit to speak one word on foreign policy, just because he's a Bush? I voted for the President and I have supported him, but he's been dropping the jug over and over; and for the Bush family to trot this twerp out is the worst form of monarchical haughtiness. (The nephew says he is "unsure" if his uncle knew about his letter to the editor. Do you believe that? I don't. Why? His father is Neil Bush, a philanderer with the morals of a five-sided comedian. I think this apple of his father's eye fell directly under the tree. And Neil Bush's educational software company Ignite Learning depends on millions of dollars in UAE financing.)

Pierce Bush's appearance on national TV to defend the now-defunct dubious Dubai deal is like a tiny replica of the Dubai deal itself, in that it clearly demonstrates this family's insulting imperial attitude toward average Americans, and its arrogant obtuseness in the face of our righteous and well-founded outrage.

These pseudo-bluebloods make a grave mistake when they go against the American grain, which bristles whenever it catches any hint of royalty or blood privilege. That's what our ancestors left behind. That's why they left: so that no kings, no queens, no priests would rule over us. Didn't you read the Constitution at the Kinkaid Skool, Pierce?

This smirky white-bread prep-school wimp has the gall to say that

opposition to the deal — it had been approved by the administration before being scuttled Thursday — sent an "ignorant and offensive" message that the owners were being discriminated against because they are Arab. The protests of Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, R-Tenn., and other congressional leaders seemed "racially prejudiced," he said in the letter, which the Chronicle published.

What a pimp. Talk about ignorant and offensive. Did you learn a lot of this horse manure while being dandled on Bandar's knee, little man? Did you get the message every time Uncle Bandy pressed a hundred-dollar bill into your soft grasping paw?

First fact: on the day that Pierce Bush, who has been to Dubai, sent his email to the Houston newspaper, the UAE's foreign policy included material and financial support for Hamas. It still does today. As Andrew McCarthy pointed out on NRO Friday, this is a direct violation of the Bush Doctrine:

The UAE was with the terrorists, big-time, before 9/11. The port-deal proponents —finding it most inconvenient to dwell on that very recent history— ignored it, preferring to libel patriotic opposition as benighted nativism, or to insist that the suicide hijackings against us were a road-to-Damascus moment for the Emirati sheikhs. It was the epiphany that put them on the right side of the Bush Doctrine’s line in the sand.

Oops. It looks like the UAE continued to underwrite terrorists long after that. Even to this day. The regime remains a booster of Hamas, an organization pledged to the destruction of Israel by violent jihad. An organization that has been designated as a foreign terrorist organization under American law since we began officially stigmatizing such entities in the mid-1990s.

It's not because they're Arabs; it's because they're evil, and they support evil regimes and doctrines. Pierce Bush is willing to sign off on that, on the Today Show.

And they're racist as hell over there. In fact, most of the UAE is run like a plantation.

On November 23, 2003, I published a piece called The Shameful Sham of the Sixth Sharjah "International" Art Biennial. Sharjah is one of the Emirates. The post included this quote from Freedom House:

Foreign nationals, who make up a staggering 98 percent of the private workforce, are subject to abuse and nonpayment of wages by employers. While labor law offers some protection, most abuse goes unreported. In June 2002, the UAE press reported that an Asian worker died and 15 fell ill at a labor camp , where workers lived in sweltering heat without water or electricity for several days because their Dubai-based employer had not paid the utility bills. In September, the government criminalized the hiring of camel jockeys under the age of 15.

Staggering is right. Outrageous. Most of the population waits on the top two percent of Arab natives. And sometimes these rich lazy fuckheads --some of whom Pierce Bush probably hung out with when he flew over there with Daddy-- won't even pay their indentured servants. Last fall, from the International Herald Tribune:

When 800 distraught workers began a protest march down a main highway here last week, they set off a national debate about the treatment of the foreign workers who are turning this Gulf emirate from desert dunes into a modern metropolis.

The men were among 6,000 foreign laborers, most of them Indians and Pakistanis, who live in a desert work camp several miles outside of the city. All 6,000 had languished without pay for more than five months.

The protest was by no means the first of its kind here, but it was unprecedented in its scale and visibility, and it served to lay bare a Dickensian underworld of poverty and exploitation in the shadow of a gleaming city of high-rise buildings and luxury hotels. . . .

How long do you think an American company could get away with that kind of dehumanizing behavior?

. . . The United Arab Emirates has earned the dubious distinction of having some of the worst labor conditions in the world. Human Rights Watch has cited the country for discrimination, exploitation and abuse. Many foreign workers, especially women, face intimidation and violence, including sexual assault, at the hands of employers, supervisors, and police and security forces, the rights group said.

I am describing Pierce and Neil's buddies over there. Igniting learning like a sonofabitch, I bet, huh? Did you hear the soft voices of the darkies in the evening, little man, while you were schmoozing with their Arab masters?

And then the punk puts on the preppy red, white, and blue, polishes his smarmy smirk, and defends these backward, tribal, racist, greedy, anti-Semitic terrorist sympathizers.

And he thinks that the newspaper readers and the TV viewers are as stupid and shallow and lazy as he is, and won't fact-check his ass six ways from Sunday. That they'll take his word for it. Trust him. Him! The mayor of Twit City!

The Dubai deal debacle shows that our leaders have woefully underestimated the alert intelligence of the average American, millions of whom, like me, knew the thing stank as soon as they read the first sentence on the crawl, or saw the headline. It was as clear as the moment that Rudy Giuliani told the Saudi prince he could keep his blood money.

I don't see you doing anything like that, Pierce. Now let the grown-ups get back to work. Go spend Daddy's money, some of which was purchased at the expense of the stunted lives of Pakistani slaves.

Kudos To John Galliano

by Catherine King

We at The Tears Of Things just love John Galliano's new line of Fall 2006 Ready-To-Wear. To us, it quintessentially captures Galliano glamour while epitomizing American practicality. And to top it off, he's got the balls to put The Stars And Stripes right on his chest --which we all know is very unpopular. He never looked better or more like a mensch.

(And he finally caught up with my wife. See the banner above, or the pop up here, or FOUR FLAGS WITH PEARLS. And for the story behind Catherine's T-shirt, go to Introducing The House Of Not For Sale: Three Flags. --Jerome du Bois)

AND THE WINNER IS . . .

Fashion Art Photography by Jerome du Bois. All clothing, styling, and accessories provided by the model, Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

IN THE GLOAMING

Nature Photography by Jerome du Bois. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

DAY OF THE EAGLE V.2

Fashion Art Photography by Jerome du Bois. All styling, clothing and accessories provided by the model, Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

THE BIRD LOOKED AT ME: 3

Nature Photography by Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.